


self igniting molotov cocktail

by winterveined



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Footy Secret Santa, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterveined/pseuds/winterveined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When James moves to Spain to course his sophomore year of High School, he expects many things. Falling in love with his German lab partner isn't one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	self igniting molotov cocktail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ascience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/gifts).



“Okay, but when will we blow something up?”

James has to press his lips lips together and cover his mouth with his hands to keep himself from laughing as soon as he hears Marcelo’s words. It’s the first day of class, and James knows, he just fucking _knows_ that he chose the right lab partner.

Chose being used as a matter of speech, since it was more of a ‘you have no choice or say in this matter’ kind of thing.

The thing is, James has just moved in to Madrid. He doesn’t really know anyone, or anything. So when the teacher - Ms. Lopez, as discovers later on - starts to talk, her heavy spaniard accent flowing out of her lips, James has to blink once, and twice, and thrice. It’s not impossible to understand, really. It’s just _complicated_ , in the ‘after centuries of colonization and mixture of races, followed by independence and a desire to distance ourselves from you, our spanish is really fucking different’ way.

And when Marcelo sits down by his side, kind, big eyes and what can probably be classified as the biggest smile James has ever seen, he’s somewhat relieved. Being entirely honest, he doesn’t even care when Marcelo looks around, and simply states “You’re the only one who doesn’t look like a giant nerd in here” with a shrug.

It doesn’t take James long to figure out that Ms. Lopez is, if anything, strict. She has long, dark hair that is perfectly secure in a high ponytail and glasses that fall to the bridge of her nose every now and then. She wears long, black, high waisted skirts with a long sleeved white blouse, and heels that are probably too high to be appropriate to teach. She is, essentially, every single white boy’s fetish dream conveyed in one body.

“Nothing is going to be blown up, not on this establishment.” There’s a sharpness in her tone that makes all the chattering cease instantly.

Marcelo nods a couple of times, still smiling brightly before leaning towards James and whispering “The only reason why I joined this class was to see shit explode. Gotta say I’m kind of disappointed.”

The class goes on smoothly. Some chattering here and there, there were quickly extinguished by no more than a silent glare, Ms. Lopez’s brows raised high as if she dared them to continue talking, dared them to disrupt the perfect, silent and concentrated atmosphere that was forming as she talked about isomers and polymers.

James shrugged softly when Marcelo leaned, whispering “Isn’t that what we learn on _regular_ chem class tho?” when she started to write and draw on the large white board.

It’s only when the bell rings and they’re packing up, each student taking their own different paths that Marcelo puts a hand on James’ shoulder, and says “Meet me for lunch, yeah?” before going to, according to him, a ‘whole new level of penitence, also known as physics class’. The way that he says it makes James be thankful for not taking physics this semester.

There is a loud chatter when he reaches the halls, and he has to squeeze past a group of hasty teenagers, who are either talking to their friends next to them, or screaming to the ones across the room, or, in some rare cases, in the same position as James: confused and overwhelmed, gulping dryly as they try to find their class, to peer through the ongrowing crowd of people.

Because, see, in Colombia, James studied in a rather small school, that was only truly filled in the first months of the year. After that, the number of attendance only dropped, and dropped, and dropped, until, by december, there was no more than twenty students on a class that originally held fifty. There weren’t halls for him to walk in zigzag, or countless of classrooms filled with countless of students, and countless of teachers who seemed genuinely interested on teaching, and sharing their knowledge to their students and to those around them. It’s odd, and unusual and absolutely fulfilling. It’s what he never truly knew he wanted, or could have.

He arrives three minutes late for History class, and their teacher dismisses his lateness with a flick of his hands, and an inviting smile on his lips. History is… interesting. It’s not worse, and yet not entirely better. It’s different, and bitter, and obliges him to press his lips together every now and then, and tilt his head to the side. It’s set in a different way, from an opposite point of view. It reverses every role that he has ever known, it makes the protagonist antagonist and the antagonist something else, not quite the hero but not entirely the villain.

James realizes, later on, that history is nothing but a reading of the past through present lenses, carefully carved and mounted to fit particular wishes and objectives. And he fucking loves it.

There’s a sweet girl on his Mathematics class, with soft blue eyes and long, dark and curly hair, waving its way down until the end of her ribs. James sits in front of her and finds it hard not to laugh at her comments. (Although, to be entirely honest, he also thinks she talks too much - when he’s trying to copy down the formulas and numbers the Professor Morales has written down on the board, when he’s trying to finish the assignment, when he’s packing up his stuff. She talks with a sly smile on her lips and an arched eyebrow and a hint of argentinian accent flowing from her lips).

He finds out soon enough that her name is Carla, and that going back to Argentina to college has always been her dream. James nods, and doesn’t tell you that it had always been his dream to move to Spain.

James walks towards the cafeteria in small pace, following the flux of people as well as finding it in his brain the memory of the quick tour given by the director no more than a month ago. He keeps his head down, peering through the crowd of nameless faces between unrecognizable chatter blasting on his ears.

That's something that reminds him of home. The loud, and rather fast, pace of the words. Laughter from indistinguishable places, the somewhat constant feeling that maybe, someway, somehow, someone may be talking about you. Maybe something good, maybe something bad, maybe a little bit of both.

James expected to stop drumming his fingers against his thighs and biting his lower lip as soon as he found Marcelo on the sea of tables and heads. He expected to feel suddenly calmer and smoother. It’s not what happens.

Sitting next to Marcelo, is probably the most beautiful man James has ever seen. He has dark hair, and he is sure that his tanned skin is as soft as velvet. His eyebrows are, honestly, something else. Perfectly sculpted, and of a dark brown, same as his eyes. There is a cap laying perfectly on his head, and (who the hell sucks one of these on the middle of school?) Whatshisname’s lips are curled around what seems to be a lollipop. Honestly. _Honestly_.

There is also someone else sitting with them at the table, but James doesn’t really pay much attention.

Marcelo opens up a smile when he sees James,  inviting him to come closer with a flick of his hands. It takes James a couple of seconds to react, small, unsure steps towards the table as he plays with the band of the oversized shirt.

"Hamezito!" Marcelo says when he gets to the table, eyes shining with sheer joy. "This is Cristiano, and this is Sergio. Sergio, Cris, this is the Chem nerd, James."

If James felt offended by the designation he didn't show, too busy sitting awkwardly by Sergio's side, hands plasted together under the table as he blinks softly, trying to pay attention to the conversation that happens. He's not entirely sure of when he gives up on understanding what is going on, but it's probably somewhere along the lines of "Where's Iker?" "I don't know, probably at the library."

He pays attention to the room instead. The white on the walls, the black of the letters. The pink chairs that fill in the large ambient, that seem to fit in quite perfectly with its atmosphere. James looks at everything amazed, still somewhat dozed off, a smile filling in his lips as he scans every single face, every single person on that room.

James answers with a sweet smile when Cristiano asks where he is from, and asks him back as soon as he notices the soft accent that flows from his lips with every other word. Cristiano fills his chest with pride before answering that he is from Portugal. He listens as Marcelo tells unbelievable stories about Brazil, gesticulating with his hands and laughing loudly when they tell him that it's all bullshit. He throws a piece of paper on Cristiano when he mocks him for his accent, and the way that he blends in portuguese and spanish every now and then.

It's only when Sergio, with big brown eyes and a hint of curiosity, asks him if he plays football that he turns his attention to the man, lips pursed together.

"Yes, actually. I used to play in Colombia all the time." James answers, his cheeks turning red and redder within the second. He doesn't tell them that he was considered the best of his school, and, maybe stretching a little, the best of his city. He doesn't tell them that, in reality, he wanted to play football professionally. He doesn't say any of that.

His answer seems to peak everyone's interest and, suddenly, every eye is fixated on him. Marcelo grins excitedly before saying "Really? In what position do you play?"

"Um, I'm a winger?"

That seems to be the right answer because, before he knows, Cristiano has a somewhat creepy smile on his lips, brows arched upwards as he looks at James. "Oh, you better be good. We've been needing a winger ever since Angel left."

"Nah, he doesn't absolutely need to be good." Sergio says, a crooked smile on his lips as he points at Marcelo. "Take Marcelo for example, he's only on the team because he's brazilian."

"And you are only on the team because you are fucking the captain." Marcelo replies, winking at him before cracking up a smile.

James, for a split second, believes that he is standing in the middle of an American High School cliché. As soon as Marcelo's words leave his mouth, a pale man with dark hair that, if James had to guess, would not be in High School, sits on the chair next to Cristiano, pressing his lips together before saying "What about me?".

He, honest to God, tries not to look at Sergio. But… Well, it is hardly his fault, because everyone on the table was looking at him. His face goes from a deep tone of red, his lips pressed together tightly, to brows raised defiantly as he looks as Marcelo, to a sly, big smile forming on his lips, blinking innocently before saying "You bet I am", and winking.

*

It happens as an accident.

It, in all honesty, happens as an accident.

In one minute they are mixing Sodium and Potassium together, and the other  the room is filled with smoke and crowded with screams.

In one minute everyone is laughing nervously, and, on the other Ms. Lopez is shutting the door with a heavy hand and a loud thump, and walking in hard and sharp steps towards their station. Her hands are curled into fists, her knuckles turning white, and she is pressing her lips together and shaking her head. She’s probably red, too, but that might be their imagination.

"I thought I had made myself clear, Mr. Vieira, that nothing would be blown up in my class. I guess you really are nothing more than a jokester, uh?"

Marcelo tries to argument, tries to say, over and over again, that it was an accident, that he, that they did not have the intention to explode anything. James tries to defend him, but is stopped with a flick of the hands, and a "you really expect me to believe that it was an accident, Mr. Rodriguez? Or that you had anything to do with it? Please."

You'd expect that, after over two months, Ms. Lopez would have forgotten about one stupid joke during the first class of the year.

In one minute Marcelo is standing by his side, and on the other he is gone, head down as he walks towards the principal's office.

In one minute Marcelo is his lab partner, and, on the other, is a new exchange student, with pale skin, blonde hair and blue eyes, that looks at him with his cheeks burning bright and his lips curved in an unsure smile, that says nothing but a "Hola" the whole day.

*

Working with Toni, the unbearably cute german exchange student, is _hard._

Not because he is a pain on the ass, or because he is uncooperative. Quite the opposite, really. He answers everything correctly, does everything neatly, leaves their station shining brightly. He always has a soft smile on his lips, that goes all the way to his eyes and his cheeks are always flushed. He never disappoints and, even though completely different from Marcelo, Toni is a surprising delight to be around of.

Toni is nice, and cute, and lovely. Toni smiles at James’ bad jokes, doesn’t talk when he’s not meant to, or, quite honestly, doesn’t talk at all. And here’s the thing: James likes silence. He enjoys it every now and then, when they’re working, or maybe when they’re being assigned something. But Toni? Toni never (never) talks. He says ‘hola’, ‘gracias’, ‘si’ or ‘no’, but, apart from that, nothing, nada. His cheeks get flushed anytime he tries to say something in spanish, too aware of his own accent to be comfortable with the words, with the pull and tricks of the foreign language.

Communication between them is hard. It’s carefully planned, meticulously articulated, like walking on eggshells. It has too much gesticulation, a weird, hybrid mix of Spanish, English and, on rare occasions, German.

It doesn’t make it any easier the fact that Toni is really - really - fucking cute. Maybe it’s his obsession with his hair, the way in which he will not go over an hour without fixing it. Or maybe it’s the way that his tongue curls around every word, and the heavy way in which he says “vork”. Maybe it’s the shy smile that cuts through his lips every now and then, or the way that his brows furrow whenever James talks too much or too fast. Whatever it might be, the point still stands: he is absolutely cute.

It’s 8pm, on a wednesday, and James sitting on the bench, listening carefully to Ancelotti’s instructions to the clash against La Nueva Escuela, biting his lower lip as he drums his fingers against his thighs, waiting patiently as the screams on the pitch become louder and louder.

“He’s into you” It’s all that Isco says as he throws himself by James’ side, one knee on top of the bench and the other on the grass. When James turns around to look at him, brows furrowed together and utter confusion passing through his eyes, Isco adds “Toni. He’s into you.”

James opens his mouth a couple of times, searching for words to say, trying to find an answer to Isco, and yet nothing comes out. He blinks, and shakes his head, and tries to laugh it off, and yet all of it only makes Isco’s smirk grow wider and wider. James fucking hates that stupid crooked smile.

He makes sure to shake any thought off his head the moment Ancelotti finishes talking, and they’re in the pitch once again. He makes sure that he is focused on the ball hitting the net, and not on the way that Toni moves around the pitch, or how he really should consider doing it professionally because holy shit he is good.

It all happens in a blink of an eye. In one second the ball passes from Iker to Pepe, and Toni is on the ground, hand on his hamstring as he screams in pain. His head is pressed against the ground, loud german curses coming out of his lips a circle of bodies and voices forms around him.

“Hijo de puta!” James mutters, shaking his head and curling his hands into fists. There is bile surging up on his throat, and, in all good graciousness, in gods name he swears, he fucking swears that his vision is red, and somewhat blured.

It comes as a surprise to everyone, and maybe even to himself, that he walks in heavy and fast steps towards the player who fouled Toni, eyebrows furrowed together and lips plastered in a thin line. James gets close enough for the player to notice that yes, it was with him, and yes, he was possibly really fucking screwed. (James also makes a mental note to put shirt number 9 on his shit, but that is not entirely relevant.)

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” James spits, eyes locked on Number 9’s as he moves closer and closer. “Do you not know how to take a ball without fouling? Does it bring you joy to hurt someone? Do you not know how to play proper fucking football?”

Fuck being polite. Fuck being nice. (James will definitely, most certainly feel bad about this later, when the adrenaline has dozed off and he is not feeling as mad).

Everyone stares at James in a midst of shock and awe, lips apart and eyes wide open, and they whispered quickly to one another. He forces the referee’s hand out of his shoulder, shaking his head from one side to the other as he walks away, on Toni’s direction. The boy is staring at him with a look that says ‘you didn’t have to do that’ or maybe ‘god, I’m really glad you did that’. James is not entirely sure, and, a part of him is glad that he isn’t.

He misses when Sergio walks towards Iker, exchanging strategies in soft whispers. He misses the yellow card that Number 9 receives. He misses the crowd chanting and screaming his name, as if he were some kind of savior.

Here’s what he does not miss: James doesn’t miss Toni’s hand touching his as he pulls him up. He doesn’t miss, simply ignores, the way that the touch felt (all too familiar, and warm, and when their hands were apart, he doesn’t miss the feeling of pins and needles on it). And James definitely, with all the certain that may exist on this wretched world, does not miss the way that Isco looks at him from across the pitch, a sort of victorious smile that lingers from one ear to the other.

It’s only when the final whistle blows that he looks at Toni again, and he regrets it almost immediately. Toni is lifting his shirt, wiping the sweat on his face with it, and there is a hint of flesh that has James unconsciously licking his lips. (In all truth, he does not regret it at all).

*

He did not spend the past month thinking about Toni.

He definitely did not spend the past month thinking about him.

Why would he? For Toni’s accent, or the way that he slowly grows more and more comfortable with the language? Or the way that their hands brush together more times than not, and how Toni is now sitting by his side every lunch, and how their legs are plastered together at every opportunity? For the way that Toni’s cheeks flush red, bright, bright red, when James corrects his pronunciation, or the way that he repeats the word again, and again, and again, until he gets it right, until it’s close to perfection?

There is absolutely no reason for James to think about Toni. At all.

And that’s what he tells Marcelo and Cristiano. Repeatedly. Every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Until Toni comes to the table and they shut up, only making stupid, double ended, filled with innuendos comments that make James flush. Be it anger or shame, his cheeks are always flushed, and Toni is always smiling.

“Toni holds the fork in a weird way.” James lets out one day, tilting his head as he looks at Marcelo.

“What do you even mean by that?” Cristiano is the one who asks, brows perfectly raised in a ‘please, shut up before you embarass yourself’ way.

“Well, you know, he holds it like, I don’t know, weirdly. Haven’t you guys noticed it?”

That seems to get Marcelo’s attention, who looks at him with a smile on his lips that lets everyone in the whole forsaken country know that his next words are up to no good, they never ever are. “Dude, se liga, we’re not the ones moping around for the german. We ain’t noticing the way he holds his fucking fork.”

“He also, like, keeps fixing his hair, you know? Like, all the fucking time. It’s quite adorable. The way he holds his pencil is nice, too, I guess. Sort of like everyone else but also not, you know?” James says, and if his face brightens up as he speaks, it is all in their imagination. Honestly.

“You do realize you are just listing things that, I don’t know, people do?” There’s a mist of judgment and boredom in Cristiano’s tone, and James gulps.

Not because of the way the words were said. That’s nothing new from Cristiano, who even asked for a golden chair simply for him to sit on, who called himself the King of that school, who has won every single Prom King ever since he set foot to the school. What makes James gulp, dry and hard, is the weight that his words have on him. It is true that he has not been able to stop talking about Toni. It is true that he is different around him. It is true that everything that the boy does seem to be spectacular to him, somehow different, somewhat special, something near amazing.

“Well, he writes with a penl sometimes, too.” James mumbles out, shrugging softly as Marcelo rolls his eyes before hitting him behind the head.

“Watch out, Hamezito, you are starting to sound just like Sergio did last year.”

James is, in every possible sense of the word, truly, magnificently fucked.

*

Wednesdays are, with no doubt, his favorite day of the whole week.

Better than Saturdays, or Fridays, because that is the only day that he has in which he is truly, entirely, alone with Toni. (And he finally, finally, decided to accept that he is hopelessly into him, hopelessly intoxicated with the boy).

Well, only kind of alone. There is an entire classroom and Ms. Lopez with them, but there are no teammates, no snarky comments, no side glances or smirks. There are no knowing eyes following them around, no ball or pitch distancing them. It is simply Toni and James, sharing a balcony, legs pressed together and arms brushing as they listen to the teacher carefully.

She is presenting their assignment, something more complicated they the rest since “Winter break is almost upon us, and this is lab class. It’s time you do something labby.” It makes some laugh, others press their brows together in concern. James looks at Toni from the corner of his eye, and catches, for a split second, the german looking back at him.

“Every student will be given, for a day, the key lab to come and work at the afternoon with their respective partner. I expect the lab to be as clean as new on the next day, and I will check it every single morning.” Ms. Lopez say, and there’s an immediate warmth in James’ stomach, and a light, a soft churn and he turns his head to look at Toni, and find him smiling softly as he looks down, taking notes on everything that the teacher says.

It is safe to say that Friday, 3pm, are the date and time James is waiting more anxiously for. He isn’t expecting anything to happen. He can’t expect anything to happen because that would be surreal, and out of this world, and just maybe, possibly, plain stupid. They are going to be working for the most important grade of the whole semester, they will be focused. They will be busy doing other things, but James doesn’t care.

He is going to be in a room alone with Toni.

Completely, utterly, entirely alone. Just the two of them, and maybe silence, and even possibly a couple of jokes here and there, but them. Nothing but their hearts beating, their voices being heard, their whatever, as long as it is theirs, and theirs only.

It is sort of pathetic, and pinning, and childish, but it’s all that he has and he holds on to it like it will cost him his life. He holds on to it with every single bone in his body, and waits patiently for the week to pass, and Monday to come, and everyday after until it is finally Friday, until it is finally 3pm.

He doesn’t care about Marcelo and Cris’ mockery, he doesn’t do anything other than smile, and blush. He doesn’t care about the way that Iker stares at him knowingly. He cares about 3pm, he cares about Toni, he cares about them, just them, and no one else.

He fucking hates himself for it, but things are how they are. And he will make no effort to change them because he doesn’t care enough, and he really wants to get into the lab, to see Toni. Just. Really, really wants.

James arrives there at 3:07pm, and Toni is already there, playing with the keys as he waits. He is ready to mutter an apology when Toni waves him off, saying “Really, I only just got here.” (It’s a lie, though, he got there at 2:55pm).

It is almost as if things were going too well, way too smoothly, like they were getting together all too well, doing things too fast, getting everything too right. It’s almost as if the universe is angry at them for working out perfectly, for matching their thoughts and for just having, pun not intended, chemistry.

It is all going all too well until James’ elbow is hitting the flask, until he sees, in slow motion, as it falls all over both of their arms and naked hands. They should, they really fucking should, have worn gloves.

They stare at each other in something between fear and shock. They know what they should be doing. They know exactly what the protocol says, not only had Ms. Lopez read it before every class, but also there is a huge poster plastered against the wall not too far from them. It’s like time freezes, and they don’t know what to do.

Toni is the first one to move, pointing at the direction of the safety shower that stands not too far from them. James nods and before taking a sharp breath, and getting up from the chair that he was sitting on.

“We’re going to have to share though. It’s too dangerous otherwise.” James hears himself saying, even though it probably wasn’t dangerous, even though they would probably be just fine, just like that. He finds himself saying, and Toni nodding, and the german’s lips curving ever so slightly into a smirk.

“Jeez, do you really want to see me naked that much?” He wiggles his brows suggestively, the smirk never leaving his lips.

James goes red, then redder, than possibly purple because, at the same time, Toni is taking off the jacket, and he draws a sharp, deep breath. “As if I don’t see you naked enough in the locker rooms.” He manages to say after a while, and he sound constricted.

“Never alone though.” He replies and he fucking winks.

The shower is a small, ‘only made for one’ kind of place. They are not, despite James’ hopes and prayers, completely naked. Both of them are wearing boxers, and James can tell that, soon enough, his will become uncomfortably tight.

When Toni opens up the water, it is incredibly, unbearably cold. James shivers under the contact, and unconsciously (or not) moves a little closer to Toni, just the slightest, just enough to make the cold less cold, and to feel Toni’s warmth next to him, close to him.

They rinse the solution off of their bodies, scratching hard on the skin for as long as they can. Their eyes meet every now and then, and it’s an mixture, a midst of feeling and emotions running through them every single time. There’s desire, there’s cold, there’s annoyance. There is a ghost of a laughter on their lips, because the situation is, in all truth, quite hilarious.

And maybe the shower isn’t on anymore but they are still staring at each other, are still looking at one another, are letting their arms fall near each other. Maybe they are too busy with the other’s lips, and eyes, and nose. Maybe they are getting closer, and closer, and closer, until they can feel each other’s breath on the tip of their nose, warm and good.

Maybe they kiss.

Maybe their lips collide and James opens up, and puts his hand on Toni’s neck, and pulls him closer, and closer, until every inch of their bodies are touching, until he is pressed against the tiles, and they are kissing, and kissing. Toni tastes like chemistry, like salt and lemon. Toni tastes like something all too familiar, something taken from each and everyone of his daydreams, of his imaginations, of his wishes. Toni tastes like everything that he has ever wished for, and everything that he never knew he could.

They finish their assignment in silence, hands brushing together and cheeks burning red occasionally.

They don’t say anything for the rest of the day, only ‘si’ and ‘no’.

*

It’s Wednesday and, for probably the first time ever since meeting Toni, he is not excited about entering Room Number 12, not excited about facing the German. There is a coldness on the pit of his stomach that roams it, haunts him whenever he thinks about the kiss, and how Toni smiled awkwardly at him before pulling away, and walked past him and towards his clothes in silent.

He tries not to think about it, and he ends up thinking about it everyday, thoughts haunting him, curling around the words on the tip of his tongue. Marcelo has asked him, more times than not, if he was okay, if he needed anything, if anything had happened. Cris didn’t mock him when all he said was “Toni”, didn’t joke about the way that his face fell when Toni sat on the table across the room, how all that he mumbled was a painfully silent “I fucked up”.

Monday and Tuesday both suck ass, and Wednesday probably will, too.

James is stupid, and greedy, and could have settled for their friendship, should have settled for their friendship. It should have been more important than a wet makeout on the Lab, as much as his lips longed for it, as much as his heart exploded on his chest, loud booms and thumbs whenever their skin touched, chills all over the place. He should have ignored all that.

Instead, he misreads Toni’s friendship for lust, and fucks it all up in the most incredibly fucked up way possible.

He looks out at the window, silently watching as the trees go from one side to the other with the motion of the wind. He drums the desk under him, and doesn’t notice when Toni sits next to him, looking at the opposite direction.

They wait patiently for Ms. Lopez but she never comes, stuck on the traffic that only grows due to the bad weather.

James finally looks at Toni, and he regrets it instantly.

Because Toni is as beautiful as he remembers, maybe even more. Toni has his cheeks flushed and his eyes are a puzzle, but he is still beautiful, so beautiful that it brings a somewhat familiar taste to the tip of James’ tongue, and he has to curl his hands around the table’s edge.

“So, are you going back to Germany for Christmas?” James manages to choke out, lips slightly parted as he looks at the figure in front of him.

Toni looks at him, and James can’t quite figure him out. It’s something between surprise and fondness, something between joy and shame. “No, it would get too expensive. This year I will not be present for the glorious and traditional Kroosmas parties.”

James chokes out a laughter, and raises his brows at the german. “Kroosmas?” He asks skeptically.

“Yeah. It’s a mixture between Christmas and Kroos.” And, when Toni notices the way that James is pressing his lips together to keep himself from laughing, he adds “Shut up, it’s traditional.”

Maybe he didn’t fuck it up entirely. Maybe they can go back to the point they were before. Maybe if they just not talk about, if they keep it quiet, pretend that it never happened, it will be fine. They will be fine. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

“James, about the lab. I just wanted you to know that I understand if you don’t feel the same, yeah? It’s fine. And. Yeah. Fine.”

James stares at him in silence, fighting to let the words come out, but they never do. They get stuck in the back of his throat, and before he can say anything like “No, I feel it too” or just grab him by the neck and pull him close and closer until their lips are clasped together in the place where they are meant to be, the bell is ringing, and Toni is leaving, and James is there, in silent, frozen still.

Fucking hell.

Fucking stupid.

Math class goes on slowly, like the clock decided not to tick anymore, like it chose to torture James, like it is angry at him for being so fucking stupid. It doesn’t help that Carla is there, eyeing him suspiciously because he keeps looking at the clock, because his foot is drumming against the floor, because he is biting his lower lip firmly enough to draw blood from it.

She eyes him suspiciously because he looks pale, and his mouth as well. Because he looks fucking constipated.

“Are you alright? You look like you’re about to pass out.” She asks, a soft touch of concern on her tone as she looks at him, lips pressed together.

“No. Toni is in love with me and I’m in love with him, and I couldn’t fucking tell him that. Because I’m fucking stupid.”

She eyes him for a moment, whatever the teacher was saying considered unimportant. Carla tilts her head to the side, lips pressed together as hms. Until a laughter breaks from her lips, and she giggles, and cackles, shaking her head from one side to the other

“Yeah, you’re pretty fucking stupid.” Carla says, and James hates her. He absolutely hates her.

It’s only when they’re leaving for lunch that she puts a hand on his shoulders, features more serious and lips pressed together as she says “Grow some balls, James. You can do this. Tell him how you feel. It’s not fair on either of you to do that, it will only hurt more and more. Trust me.”

He takes her words to heart.

*

James only has enough courage on Friday, though.

Not because Marcelo and Cristiano called him a wuss, a chicken, a coward. Not because Isco said “I told you so” countless times. Not because Carla threatened to hit him in the face. It wasn’t because of the countless hours that he spent awake, thinking about the kiss, and the class, and the way that his cheeks burned bright and his heart beat fast, and then faster.

It was only when Sergio came to him during practice, sat by his side on the bench, a knowing look on his eyes, that was something between sad and pleased.

“Talk to him. Not now, but when you’re ready to.” Sergio says at first, looking at Toni who trained with Karim from afar. “I know that everyone has told you to do that already. Honestly, I do. But you need to know--Keeping things like this, on open, one knowing and the other oblivious, it’s painful. For everyone. I spent years and years yearning and pinning after Iker, and when I finally gathered up enough courage to tell him how I felt, he just shook his head and asked me ‘How long have you been feeling this’ and ‘Why the hell did it take you so long to tell me’. If Toni really likes you, and he does, it will all fall into place. So talk to him.”

And then he’s gone, sprinting towards Iker before jumping on him, throwing both of them to the ground. And James knows, he just knows, that it is time. That he is ready.

So, after practice, when everyone else is going to the locker rooms, talking loudly and laughing, he puts a hand on Toni’s shoulder, and asks him quietly to wait there. All that he receives in return in a confused look. Toni’s brows are furrowed together, and his head is slightly tilted. He is playing anxiously with the band of his shirt, lips pressed together.

All that James says is “I feel it too.”.

It’s quick, and he doesn’t see it coming, but sooner than later Toni’s hands are on his neck, pulling him closer, and closer. Their lips crash and it’s like an explosion, like they were always set to ignite.

They separate, taking deep breaths as they look at each other, a small, soft smile on their lips, growing and curving it into place.

They kiss again, and again, this time much calmer, enjoying their taste, their feel. Enjoying the sensation of their lips plastered together, of James’ thumb nuzzling in circular motions against Toni’s neck, the feeling of the chills that run through his body as they touch again, and again, and again.

From somewhere on the other side of the pitch, Marcelo starts clapping and Isco screams “Fucking finally!”.

**Author's Note:**

> YO, FRAUKE!  
> I really, truly, genuinely hope you like this, hope this is somehow, sort of along the lines of what you wanted. I was very excited when I was paired up with you, and even more excited when I saw your prompts. Again, I hope you like this, I surely enjoyed writing it, and a very Merry Christmas to you!!   
> -  
> Every possible mistake on this fic is on me. Comments are always appreciated <3  
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/schwnies) and [Tumblr](http://sergiohamos.tumblr.com/).


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